After last week’s introduction to camp, I’m happy to say that no one has been ejected from camp. Yet.

On Wednesday morning, I saw Cordy’s after-care teacher and told her that I thought Cordy would do well now that she understood the routine. The teacher, however, was unconvinced and again tried to talk me out of leaving her in after-care. She yet again mentioned that Cordy needed other kids to play with because she was lonely. I assured her that Cordy loves to play by herself.

And then she said, “It’s not right for a child to be that upset. You didn’t see how she was on Monday. I’ve never seen anyone that upset before. I’m amazed they were able to carry her to the room.”

I was unimpressed. “Was she bleeding?” I asked.

“Uh, no.”

“Then she wasn’t that upset,” I explained. “When she’s so out of control that she hits her head on things until she bleeds, then call me. THAT is her ‘really upset’.”

“Well, you’ll be home today, right? I’ll call you to come get her if she has any problems.”

I rolled my eyes. “I hope you’ll try to work out the problems BEFORE calling me.” And with that, I left.

As I expected on Wednesday, after I had a long chat with Cordy about what to expect from the after-care routine, and after the teachers decided they would take her directly inside instead of to the pick-up area, Cordy had a fabulous time. When we went to pick her up, she was sitting quietly in the room with a teacher beside her, drawing picture after picture and describing what she was drawing.

They reported that she had no issues at all that day, and really enjoyed the afternoon. See? I know my kid.

The next morning, I saw the after-care teacher again, smiled sweetly and said, “I hear she had a great day yesterday! I told you it would all work out!”

No smile in return. Instead, she frowned and said, “Well, she didn’t have a fit, but she was clearly bored with no one else to play with.”

Whatever, lady. It must suck to be someone who can never be happy.

I spoke with a friend who works there, and she told me that this particular woman teaches kindergarten and is used to working with kids who have been in the daycare system since they were little. These kids know how the system works and give her few problems. Someone like Cordy doesn’t fit in with her idea of how children work.

On Friday, we had thunderstorms moving through Columbus at drop-off, and so all of the kids had to start the morning inside. Cordy was not happy with the group circle time inside, and Aaron had to stay with her for awhile while she cried from the change in routine and all of the noise caused by the echo in the room. She eventually calmed down and had a good day.

The humorous end to the week? On Friday, there were two children with Cordy in after-care.

And what was she doing?

Sitting quietly by herself, looking at a book.

My warrior princess is going to do just fine at camp, in spite of those who would rather she not be there because she’s different.

When last we left our stressed-out mommy and her strong-willed, curly-headed child, they were getting ready for an evaluation to determine if spectrum disorders were still on the table for said strong-willed, curly-headed child.

Saturday’s evaluation went well, or at least way, WAY, better than the last time someone tried to evaluate Cordy. We arrived at the small office, and after a quick trip to the potty (over a month without an accident during the day – WOO-HOO!), the evaluator asked if Cordy wanted to pick out a toy to play with while she and I talked at the beginning. Cordy surveyed the dolls and books and shook her head no, but then another cabinet revealed a peg board, and she was immediately happy.

While Cordy took out the pegs and replaced them in order, I gave her history to the evaluator. (And because I hate typing out evaluator each time, let’s just call her Amy because, well, that’s her name.) After reviewing her history, Amy asked Cordy to join her at the table in the room. Cordy refused, and instead became fascinated with some wind chimes hanging in the window. Several different approaches were used to get her to sit at the table, but Cordy said she was too wiggly, too scared of the chair, too tired, and anything else she could think of.

We finally settled her on the couch next to me, and Amy pulled the table over to the couch. I had to take the peg board away from her to gain her attention. Amy started with various types of cognitive testing, and Cordy, when she focused, breezed right through them.

The test that amazed me was a pictogram test. Amy showed Cordy two symbols and asked her to repeat the names of each symbol: “girl” “the.” Next, she turned the page and showed her two more symbols, followed by another page where the symbols were arranged in a sentence. Amy then added two new symbols with each page turn, asking Cordy to read each new sentence without reviewing the old symbols.

She worked her way up to about 15-18 symbols, and Cordy could read most of the symbols without further prompting. The one she missed were consistent, meaning she probably wasn’t paying attention during the introduction for those symbols. Let me put it this way: she was doing better at remembering the symbols than I was. Essentially, she was reading a written language she had just been taught. I was stunned.

After the cognitive tests, Amy gave Cordy a break (with the peg board, of course) while she brought in some toys for a play evaluation. A year and a half ago, this was a disaster because Cordy refused to play with the toys they gave her. This time, before the plastic tubs of toys were opened Cordy spied an old 1980’s Fischer-Price cash register (remember those?) on the shelf in the room and asked to play with it. Amy shrugged her shoulders and said it was fine to play with the cash register.

Cordy immediately went to work figuring out how to put the plastic coins in the slots and push the buttons. Amy watched her for a few minutes, stepping in to help when Cordy asked for help, but otherwise observing how she played with the toy. Eventually, Amy picked up a pencil and asked if she could buy it. Cordy ignored her at first, getting frustrated with a coin stuck in one of the slots.

Amy asked again, this time giving more prompts for social play. Cordy eventually responded, telling her the pencil was “One hundred.” Amy picked up a coin and gave it to Cordy, and she put it in the register. Each time Amy had to initiate the social play and Cordy would follow along, often getting very excited about the game. But without her prompting, Cordy would go back to her own private exploration of the cash register. “Had I not stepped in, would she have continued playing like that?” Amy asked me.

“Most likely.”

“That’s what I thought.”

After an hour and a half, Cordy’s evaluation was over, without any tears, thrashing or head banging. We often had to ask Cordy to sit up on the couch, or pay attention to what was on the table, or stop bouncing, but there were no meltdowns. I can’t even describe my relief.

Amy told me that the questionnaires I filled out would need to be scored along with her evaluation forms, and said I should expect to hear back from her in 3-4 weeks for a meeting to discuss the results.

3-4 weeks sounded like eternity to me, so I asked her if she could give me her initial impressions of Cordy’s behavior. Amy replied that she was certain Cordy would still be considered on the spectrum, and would likely keep the diagnosis given by the school of PDD-NOS. However, she said that based on what she saw, she would probably have Cordy evaluated for Asperger’s when she’s a little older. Having it confirmed that Cordy’s cognitive skills are excellent was good to hear, and Amy was also impressed with her verbal abilities.

Our session ended with Amy telling me that based on Cordy’s history and records, it’s obvious to her that we (her parents and her teachers) have put a lot of effort into helping her, and it shows. She said we were right to get her evaluated and into therapy when we did. Without early intervention, she might not have the skills she has now, and it’s likely her future has been forever changed thanks to that intervention.

Deep exhale now. Knowing that my Amazon warrior princess made it through the evaluation without causing a scene left me so proud of her. I could tell she was starting to burn out by the end of the meeting. More fidgeting, eye contact disappeared, hopping in place, some hand flapping, etc. We left before she completely lost her focus, managing to say goodbye to Amy, and even looking her in the eye briefly after Amy asked Cordy to look at her and say bye again. We left with no one glad to see her go. No bruises, no tear-stained face, no carrying her out.

Now we wait for the official meeting. If/when a diagnosis is given, we’ll be given even more access to services in Columbus. That’s great news for us.

And my little girl. My firstborn. My Cordelia. She frustrates the hell out of me so often, to the point where I want to yell Would you just act normal for once! But in her ginormous blue eyes, I can see her determination and her struggle to understand her world. I can’t fault her for her incessant questioning, her confused tears or her overwhelmed screeches. She wants to be a good girl, and she wants to learn all she can. The extra hurdles she has to jump won’t take her down.

Autism or no autism, she’s an awesome kid, and she’s only going to get better.

We celebrated by going to the zoo the next day, where you can see Cordy was nearly mauled by a giant koala.